


Sugar Rush, Don't Stop

by buhnebeest



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Bodyswap, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buhnebeest/pseuds/buhnebeest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Okay, it was barely an accident,” Ray admits, holding up his hands placatingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar Rush, Don't Stop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [looleebelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/looleebelle/gifts).



Ray wakes up in a fucking cloud.

Seedy motels have improved immensely since Ray’s been back from the desert, perhaps only comparatively, but that doesn't take away the splendor of a good bed. This mattress is the fucking shit, made of ice cream and the giggles of a thousand cock-hungry virgins, and Ray is seriously never doing anything that requires fine motor skills ever again. Not even moving his face enough to tell his lady companion that her elbow is slowly pulverizing his poor abused liver. It helps that she’s sucking him off, yeah, that definitely works for him, who the fuck cares about vital organs when there’s wet sloppy suction all around his dick and some serious-business tongue action going on.

Fuck yeah, he thinks dreamily, reaching down to pet his fingers through a soft pixie cut, thumb playing with the lobe of one out-sticking ear. He doesn't quite remember her name—Tracy? Trixie? Something pornstar-trashy to go with her awesome blowjob skills—or, well, her face, but she’s clearly a whopper of a lady, a three-movies-and-a-prequel kind of princess, and possibly she should be immortalized in song. Ray cradles her stubbled jaw as she goes down down down, moaning happily when she presses sticky fingertips to his balls, stroking, and--

Wait, hold up. Stubble?

Ray’s eyes fly open.

The LT stares up at him hotly from between his legs.

“GAH!” Ray yelps, jerking back so hard he nearly brains himself on the headboard. Fick hums, bracing the arm he has curled over Ray’s hips to hold him still as he goes right on sucking Ray’s brain out of his dick with his actual cocksucker lips. Ray flails confusedly, his instincts all out of wack; he’s never actually pushed someone off his dick before, and even now it seems counterintuitive.

“GAH!” he says again, urgently, and shoves awkwardly at Fick’s shoulders until he pulls off with a slick wet sound that’s mortifyingly indecent, licking his lips, smirking up at Ray hungrily.

Ray makes a strangled noise and dives off the bed.

“Nope! No no no, this is not cool, LT, bad touch! Friends don’t let friends suck their boyfriend’s best friend’s dick, this is basic shit, even an Ivy League dicksuck like yourself—”

He stops abruptly. His voice sounds weird.

“What are you talking about?” Fick’s turned on the light on the bedside cabinet, revealing his frown and his shiny lips pressed together as he watches Ray worriedly. “Brad, what’s wrong?”

Ray stares for a moment, squinting, weighing the odds of the LT cheating on Brad versus the LT going crazy.

He looks down. At a buffed-up tanned torso and way-too-long gigantor limbs and dark blond pubes and a huge fucking dick still standing at attention.

_Motherfucker._

“Oh no no no,” Ray chants, scrabbling up to his knees so he can crawl towards the full-length mirror on the wardrobe, and fuck fuck fuck that is Brad scurrying on the floor like an equilibrium-challenged squirrel with Ray’s expression of horrified dismay on his face. He clutches at his cheeks, Brad’s cheeks, with Brad’s gigantic man-paws, and tries really hard not to freak the fuck out.

“Brad!” Fick barks, in that clipped, take-no-prisoners officer tone that taps right into Ray’s half-buried Marine hindbrain and freezes him in his tracks like Fick just pushed the pause-button on him. Fuck. Ray is terrible with officers when he’s not jonesing on chemical substances, and of course Brad is sober as a fucking nun.

“Actually. Sir.” He swallows, and he has a weird moment where he doesn't remember having ever heard Brad sound nervous. “It’s uh. Ray.”

Fick stares at him.

Ray smiles winningly.

The phone rings.

Ray winces.

“Brad, what the fuck.” Fick says flatly, stern gaze flicking from Ray to Brad’s phone on the nightstand blaring the intro tune to the Muppets. Brad thinks he’s so fucking funny.

“I’m just gonna—” Ray lunges for the nightstand, but it turns out a lunge with Brad’s limbs catapults you right into the wall, so Ray is cursing and nursing the bump on his head when Fick presses ‘talk’.

Ray’s tinny voice fills the room, menacing and Iceman-calm.

“Ray, you snaggletoothed, donkey-fucking piece of fermented shit—”

Ray can feel hysterical laughter bubbling up in his throat. Fick is staring at the phone.

“—when I get my hands on you I will finally finish the job your half-wit, trailer trash mother neglected to fulfill at birth and snap your neck like the fucking runt of the litter you are—”

Fick sits down on the bed slowly, looking a little sick.

“—and if you don’t unfuck whatever the fuck it is you did to make me wake up in the repulsive, flea-ridden, zit-encrusted bag of bones you have the audacity to call a body, I will—”

“LT,” Ray whispers, prodding his shoulder experimentally. Fick jerks his gaze to look at him, wide-eyed. “I swear it was an accident.”

Brad pauses mid-invective.

“Nate.”

“…Brad,” Fick says doubtfully, glancing at Ray again but apparently willing to board the crazy train. “Are you okay?”

Brad snorts. “For a given value of ‘okay’. I’m trapped in a whiskey tango midget. And he’s hung-over.”

“Oh yeah, sorry about that,” Ray says distractedly, still watching Fick for signs of a crash and burn freak-out. Ray would argue that this little mishap hardly ranks as fucked up as half the shit Encino Man pulled during their stint in the sandbox, and actually, Fick seems to be pulling himself together just fine.

“Explain this to me,” Fick orders, almost plaintively if it weren’t for the officer-voice.

“Well, I uh. I lost a game of _Settlers of Catan_ to a witch. Sir.”

There is an awkward silence. The phone in Fick’s hand seems to emanate actual freezing cold. Ray idly observes Brad’s freakishly long toes as he curls them in the carpet.

“…Explain it more elaborately,” Fick says.

 

*****

 

It’s not like Ray can put it any more clearly than this: he told a witch she could try her voodoo on him if she could beat him in a board game, and possibly he was severely inebriated at the time, but surely that shouldn't surprise anyone.

“Goddamn it, Ray, I keep telling you not to mess around with witches.”

“What,” says Fick, to the wall over Ray’s shoulder. He’s looked everywhere but at Ray for the past ten minutes.

“I know, homes, but she was really hot. You know I can’t help it when they’re hot.”

“You can't help it when they're four-legged and furry, Ray. Try to at least to control yourself when they're actively out to fuck you over. We had this talk after that coven in Sidney.”

“ _What_ ,” says Fick.

“I’m still counting it as an orgy, Brad, I don’t care if I was a ladybug at the time.”

“No one cares. Do you remember her name, at least? Anything?”

“Not a clue. Probably part of the whammy. I know the bar, though, it was that place with the shitty beer where Poke made that yuppie Dawson’s Creek ballboy cry that time.”

“Ray, that’s at least four bars off the top of my head.”

“Is anyone going to explain the witches at some point?” Fick asks the ceiling.

“Nah, you know the one, there was a lamp in the shape of palm tree and you wanted to set it on fire.”

“Wasn’t that the place with the shitty tequila where you made out with that ladyboy?”

“All tequila is shitty, Brad. And I’ll have you know she was a lady in the streets and an even bigger lady in the sheets—”

“Right!” Fick sits up abruptly and claps his hands decisively. “This is going nowhere fast. How do we fix this?”

Brad clears his throat, sounding annoyed that he can't give straight intel. “Well, usually it just… wears off.”

“That’s not good enough.” Fick gets off the bed. “Ray, get dressed, we’re going to Brad; Brad, find out where Ray went yesterday. Rendezvous at 1100 hours.”

He hangs up the phone, looking about thirty different kinds of done with the world.

“Okay, it was barely an accident,” Ray admits, holding up his hands placatingly, “But, to be fair, blaming the victim is a serious psychosocial problem, right up there with cognitive dissonance and pyromania, and you should consider seeking out a head shrink for that look that you’re giving me right now.”

Fick raises an eyebrow.

Ray hunches his shoulders and slinks off to find Brad's clothes.

 

*****

 

Fick’s living room looks like a whirlwind passed through it, furniture knocked askew and ripped clothing strewn around like confetti. Ray grimaces his way through a mostly uncoordinated excavation of Brad’s shit. Luckily Brad is a slutty slutty man and only wore shorts and a T-shirt, so retrieval is fairly painless, if you don’t count the various times Ray knocks into shit because his balance is all fucked up. He feels like a giant, or like one of those gaywad circusfreaks who walk on stilts.

He’s mainlining cold coffee to get at least some kind of buzz going when Fick comes back from wherever he fucked off to in order to have his existential crisis in peace, looking both less and more like he’s ready to kill somebody.

“Get in the car,” he says, throwing Ray a set of keys, “I’ll be right out.”

And Ray would, except he kind of fails to catch the keys, and instead manages to smash his elbow into the coffee table, which is made of glass and shatters into a million pieces.

“Right on, LT, in a minute,” Ray wheezes, dusting pieces of bloodied glass off his knee. “We are so fucking lucky Brad’s still on leave,” he adds.

Fick nods, looking pained, and goes to find a first aid kit.

 

*****

 

An hour later, Ray is in the passenger's seat of Fick's Volvo, seat pushed back as far as it can go to make room for his legs. Ray has had to endure endless hours of Brad bitching about the lack of leg space in any given vehicle they've ever shared, and frankly this kind of vindication is not something Ray thinks Brad particularly deserves.

Also people check him out way more; seriously, all the chicks they’ve walked past so far have checked him out, from the hot giggling coeds to old ladies with little obnoxious purse-dogs. Like, Ray wouldn't sneeze at the trim he cruises in his own body, okay, but the Iceman could probably pull anyone. Asshole. Brad’s epic emo angstfest over Fick before they became a pair of domesticated homos is even more hilariously retarded now, because Fick is the worst of them all.

“I’m not looking at you, Ray,” Fick says, staring resolutely out the window with a lot more attention than the Sunday morning non-traffic really warrants.

“No, see, that’s the thing, you’re not looking at all, which is such a switch from our little summer road trip it’s way too obvious. C’mon, LT, this cat’s so far out of the bag it’s not even funny. Look, all I’m saying is that this shit—” he gestures at himself, Brad’s face and body and, as an afterthought, his crotch “—is completely wasted on Brad. Serial monogamy or hookers, like you need any kind of Viking god-body to pull that.”

“Thanks, Ray,” Fick says, dry as MRE pound cake, “But I manage to find use for Brad’s body just fine.”

“Gross,” Ray says delightedly, squirming around in a futile attempt to get comfortable. “Are you gonna dish on your bedroom activities, LT? You can tell your pal Ray, I’m a great listener.”

Fick snorts. “Well, you’ve forever ruined morning blowjobs for me, thanks for that.”

“No problem, sir.”

“God, please stop calling me that.”

“Is it turning you on?”

“ _No._ “

“…Does it turn Brad on?”

“Shut up, Ray.”

Ray sighs proudly, putting a hand over his heart. Baby’s first ‘shut up, Ray’.

 

*****

 

“Body!” Ray exclaims as he slams the car door shut behind him, making a beeline for Brad. Running into his own arms has possibly been a lifelong fantasy; Brad is a less than enthusiastic participant, but whatever, Ray is huge now and totally manhandicapable. “I missed you so much, body, I promise you’re my boo.”

“Ray, I swear to God…” Brad starts, but stops when the car door slamming again means that Fick has entered the scene, and the two of them are probably doing their telepathic soul-watching thing right about now, which--

“Ew, don’t eyefuck in my body, Brad.”

“Shut up, Ray.” Brad manages to squirm himself out of Ray’s grip and heads over to Fick. Once, when he was still in the stages of adulation of the Iceman and not his bestest buddy and glaringly aware of him being nothing but a severely competent dweeb, Ray tried out a blank-faced Iceman-stare in the mirror. It was a failed attempt, and he mostly looked constipated, but apparently that’s just how Ray’s face looks when he tries to look serious. Ray sniggers.

Brad clears his throat.

“The bartender provided this address,” he reports, all business, “Apparently there have been previous… altercations. This lady will supposedly help us out.” Brad scowls. “For a nominal fee.”

 

*****

 

Mrs. Lewis has eight cats, a .9mm handgun in her cutlery drawer and a wrinkly, sympathetic smile. Ray stirs sugar into his coffee and watches Fick explain the situation in decidedly PG-13 terms while Brad communes with the cats in the background.

“Oh, honey,” croons Mrs. Lewis, offering Ray another cookie, “Such a scare you must have had.”

“It was a doozy, ma’am,” agrees Fick, all boy-next-door smile and earnest eyes. “And we’d really like to reverse it. Really. Just. As soon as possible. Please.”

Behind him, Brad rolls his eyes so hard he’s probably giving Ray brain damage, while Ray munches on his cookie and tries not to feel offended. There’s really no need to be quite so vehement about it.

Mrs. Lewis nods gravely, twinkle in her eye. “Well, all right, all right, no need for the dramatics. Eat your cookie, dear,” she adds to Brad, pointedly. Brad pulls a face and eats his cookie.

 

*****

 

“So...” Ray says, already edging out the door. “That was wacky, huh?”

“Get out of here, Ray.”

“Right,” Ray says, relieved to the fucking gills, and goes home to find a mirror to hug.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://yagkyas.livejournal.com/63209.html#cutid1).


End file.
